Mistress of the Solstice
Anna Kashina
MISTRESS
OF THE
SOLSTICE
Anna Kashina
Dragonwell Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright @ 2013 by Anna Kashina
Cover art by Howard David Johnson
Design elements by Olga Karengina
Published by Dragonwell Publishing
(www.dragonwellpublishing.com)
ISBN 978-0-9838320-4-1
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher.
Contents
Prelude
Chapter 1. Marya
Chapter 2. Ivan
Chapter 3. Marya
Chapter 4. Ivan
Chapter 5. Marya
Chapter 6. Ivan
Chapter 7. Marya
Chapter 8. Ivan
Chapter 9. Marya
Chapter 10. Ivan
Chapter 11. Marya
Chapter 12. Ivan
Chapter 13. Marya
Chapter 14. Ivan
Chapter 15. Marya
Chapter 16. Ivan
Chapter 17. Marya
Chapter 18. Ivan
Chapter 19. Marya
Chapter 20. Ivan
Chapter 21. Marya
Chapter 22. Ivan
Chapter 23. Marya
Chapter 24. Ivan
Chapter 25. Marya
Chapter 26. Ivan
Chapter 27. Marya
Chapter 28. Ivan
Chapter 29. Marya
Chapter 30. Ivan
Chapter 31. Marya
Chapter 32. Ivan
Chapter 33. Marya
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Herbs of the magic brew, six and six,
Blend at my will into potent mix.
Six herbs of darkness, six herbs of light,
Grant me the power, grant me the sight.
Light herbs are easy—pick them and toss them:
Color of bluebell, chamomile blossom,
Freshness of catnip, honey of clover,
Fire of lychnis, rose-bay flower.
Herbs of the dark are heady and strong,
Pick them is silence, sing them no song.
Dark herbs that seal the brew’s potent taste
Cannot be named, or your work is a waste.
On the night of the Solstice, Love is the rule
Granted to all who tastes the brew.
Great God Kupalo, bless our crops,
Save us from evil, lift our hopes.
We all are consumed by love, lust, and glee,
Save for the Mistress, who must remain free,
For if the seed of Love in her heart doth bloom,
Our land will fall to the powers of doom.
The power of Kupalo goeth forth into ages,
Yet rule of immortal doth carry its doom.
On the night of the Solstice, a hero of legend,
Cometh marked by an arrow through turmoil and gloom.
His guides are the creatures of magic and wisdom,
His strength is no weapon, but fire in his eyes.
He carrieth death for the rule of the kingdom,
He bringeth new life for the new sacrifice.
Marya
I stood beside my father and watched the girl drown. She was a strong one. Her hands continued to reach out long after her face had disappeared from view. The splashing she made could have soaked a flock of wild geese to the bone. She wanted to live, but there was no escape from the waters of the Sacrifice Pool.
I looked at my father’s handsome profile. His pale face, awash with moonlight, looked magnificent. The power of the Solstice enfolded him. It made me proud to be at his side, his daughter, his head priestess. He was the one who mattered. The only one.
The girl’s struggle ceased. The rippling water of the lake stilled, glittering in the silvery light of the near-full moon. We watched the flicker of the glowing candles set in the flower wreaths as they floated downstream. A few of the wreaths had already sunk—bad luck for their owners, who would most likely die before the next Solstice. Maybe one of them belonged to the next Sacrifice Maiden?
I felt my father stir next to me, as he too peered into the amber depths of the lake.
“A fine sacrifice, Marya,” he said. “You did well.”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes to feel the familiar calmness wash over me. I was detached. I didn’t care.
I didn’t even know her name.
My eyes still closed, I sensed my father throw off his cloak and stand naked, his arms open to the cool night breeze.
“Bring her to me, Marya,” he whispered.
I stretched my thoughts, seeking out her body tangled in the weeds on the bottom of the lake, seeking the spark of life that still remained there, trapped, beating in terror against its dead shell like a caged bird. I reached for it, brought it out, and gave it to my father. I sensed the moment the two of them became one, her virginal powers filling him with such a force that the air around us crackled with the freshness of a thunderstorm.
He sighed, slowly returning to his senses. I kept my eyes shut until he found his cloak on the damp grass and wrapped it around his shoulders. I sensed his aura returning as he once again became himself. The Tzar. The immortal. The invincible.
The undead.
We could hear people singing in the main glade. The celebration was at its full. Soon they would be jumping over the bonfire. As the night reached its darkest, quietest hour, they would break into couples and wander off into the forest. “Searching for a fern flower” they called it. Fern has no flowers, of course. But searching for it made a good excuse for seeking the solitude of the woods. Besides, the blood of virginity spilled on the Solstice night glowed like a rare, exotic blossom of true passion. Those who found their fern flowers tonight were blessed by Kupalo.
I could hear the whisper of every leaf, every tree, and every flower in the forest. This was the night when the powers of Kupalo roamed freely in the world; this was the night when everyone’s mind was clouded by Love.
Except mine. Love had no power over me. My mind was free.
One year later…
Ivan
The room smelled of dust and stale bread. It looked far smaller than it had last night. The woman—Ivan had never managed to catch her name—was scooping ashes out of the large stove. There was a squeaking in the corner, and as he watched the woman’s soot-stained hands, a gray shadow darted across the floor past her skirt. She paid it no notice.
Ivan pulled his pack away from the wall and leaned on his elbow, enjoying the warmth of the morning sunlight creeping in through a dusty windowpane.
The man at the table raised his eyes from the mug and stared at Ivan.
“What is the chosen maid’s name?” Ivan asked.
The man sighed. “I’m warning you one last time. Let it be. You’re an outsider. You’ll never understand.”
Ivan held his gaze. “I’d like to try. If you would be kind enough to explain, old father.”
The man’s gaze was heavy, unblinking. It was hard to read his expression.
“We’ve had many heroes come to our kingdom. They never asked any questions. They knew exactly what was going on and what they needed to do. And yet, they all failed. Why do you think you’ll get anywhere by asking questions?”
“Because,” Ivan said, “I’m not like any of them.”
The man took a big gulp from his mug and wiped the foam off with his sleeve. “You’
re either very good, lad, or very stupid.”
Ivan waited. The pause was long this time, yet he knew the man would speak.
“Pyotr and Vassa have six daughters,” the man said at length. “It is an honor for one of them to be chosen. When else can a common girl get to carry the fate of the kingdom on her shoulders?”
“How exactly does it work?” Ivan asked carefully.
The man’s bloodshot eyes looked glassy. At first Ivan thought it was from the drink. Then he saw a tear standing in the fold of the man’s sunburnt skin.
“Our kingdom is small,” the man said. “In six days you can ride all the way across. And yet over the years it has withstood the attacks of armies that rolled from East to West, burning all in their way.”
Ivan nodded. People in the last two kingdoms he’d passed through were so wary of strangers that he’d had real trouble finding food and shelter.
“Do you know what makes our kingdom invincible?” The man leaned forward, his beady eyes staring directly into Ivan’s. His breath was foul, but Ivan didn’t turn away. He waited.
“Love,” the man said hoarsely. He dropped his head and sat for a while, breathing heavily, as if this one word had spent all his energy.
“Love?”
The man lifted his head and looked at Ivan for another long moment. “Our Tzar, Kashchey. Kashchey the Immortal, that’s what he likes to be called. But village folks sometimes call him—” the man leaned close, whispering in Ivan’s ear.
“The Undead?” Ivan repeated. He had heard the name before, though no one had ever talked about it openly. “But why?”
“Hush, lad!” the man commanded. “Unless you want to be stripped naked and thrown out of this village!”
Ivan shook his head. None of this made sense. Yet, it unnerved him to see the large, boar-like man in front of him so disturbed.
“What’s it to you?” the man asked. “Why do you care so much?”
Ivan sighed. It was hard to explain to a stranger, especially one so absorbed in his own worries. “It is a debt I must pay. To a friend.”
The man frowned. “Does this friend mean so much to you? Enough to meddle with the Damned?”
Ivan smiled and kept his silence.
“You must owe him a lot,” the man said.
“I owe him my life.”
A shrug. “Lives don’t mean much. Not in our parts, anyhow.”
Ivan held his gaze. “They do, to me.”
The man’s chin trembled. He clasped it with his hand.
“You’re still young. Twenty summers, at most.”
“Twenty four.” It hardly mattered.
“You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Try me.”
The man’s cheek twitched. Ivan had an odd feeling he was holding back tears, but the impression dissipated as the villager slammed his meaty hand on the dirty table top. “Leave it be.” He pushed away and rose heavily to his feet. “I expect you’ll want to move on as soon as possible.”
Ivan narrowed his eyes, watching the man’s face, small beads of sweat that rolled down his temple to rest in the folds of skin under the eye. The man was afraid. Terrified.
After everything he’d learned in the last few villages, Ivan was not surprised. He wondered how anyone could maintain a pretense of a normal life under this kind of strain.
He nodded his response to the man’s prompting gaze and scooped up his pack as he followed the man toward the door.
“Just remember,” the man warned him. “The Mistress will be here tomorrow to pick up the girl. It is an ancient ritual. We want no meddling do-gooders to disturb it for us. If we find that you and your beast companion are still nosing around—”
Wolf. Ivan felt an unbidden pang of worry. He dismissed it. Wolf had always been good at taking care of himself.“Don’t worry,” he assured. “We won’t.”
“Don’t cause any trouble,” the man persisted. “Pyotr’s family is going through a lot already. I just hope—we all hope—his daughter will do.” His eyes wandered to the curtained alcove above the stove where, Ivan knew, the man’s own daughter slept. His face spoke without words. I hope it is Pyotr’s daughter and not mine, it said. Not this year. Not ever.
“Right.” Ivan flipped his pack onto his shoulder.
The man stood still for a moment. He appeared to be thinking hard.
“You might want to talk to Gleb,” he finally said. “The herb man in Zabolotnoye.”
Ivan turned, careful not to show any emotion. “The village behind the swamp?”
“There is no swamp. Dried off a hundred years ago, grandmother used to tell. It’s just a name.”
“How do I get there?”
“Follow the path east. It’s far from here—almost twenty versts. But, if you’re lucky, if you stay out of Leshy’s way, you’ll be there tonight.”
Wolf was waiting outside the outer village fence, lying in the long grass. His head lifted up as he saw Ivan, his muzzle rising as high as Ivan’s waist. It had a rust-colored patch of dry blood smeared into the fur around his nose.
“You surely took a long time, boy,” he growled as Ivan approached. “And, you look too pleased with yourself.”
“He told me how to find Gleb!”
Wolf rubbed a paw against his nose, melting the stain into the rusted gray of his fur. It was hard to imagine that he was capable of human speech. It was even harder to imagine that this large gray beast had been alive long before Ivan’s home kingdom had risen from a group of troubled villages and local tribes. Ancient history, as far as Ivan was concerned. Yet, in the past year, he had come to terms with these things.
“And?” Wolf prompted.
“And what?”
“Are you sure it’s the same Gleb?”
Ivan hesitated. He’d been so glad to hear the name from the villager that the possibility that it might belong to somebody else had never crossed his mind.
“He said Gleb the Herb Man. It seemed likely at the time. And, there is only one way to find out for sure. He’s only twenty versts from here, in a village called Zabolotnoye.”
Wolf nodded. “Assuming that old Gleb had decided to move back to the Damned Kingdom in the first place, it would be just like him to find some god-forsaken village for a home. How did Gleb’s name come up? You didn’t ask, did you?”
Ivan shook his head. “You told me not to. And, I didn’t think they would know, anyhow. The man just mentioned him.”
Wolf fixed him with a stare. “‘Just mentioned him’, eh?’”
Ivan nodded.
“People never ‘just mention’ anything.”
“Perhaps,” Ivan suggested, “they do if you give them a chance.”
Wolf bared his teeth. “Perhaps you’d do better to move your smart feet. Twenty versts is a long way.”
The man who opened the door had thin white hair falling past his shoulders and a long straight beard. He eyed his visitors calmly, like a man not prone to surprise.
“Come in.” The man’s gaze was directed past Ivan’s shoulder.
With a shock, Ivan realized the man spoke to Wolf. The gray beast silently brushed past Ivan and padded to a small floor mat spread near the stove. After a moment, Ivan followed him inside.
The dark, warm room smelled of herbs. In the light of a thick flat candle floating in a clay dish of water, Ivan could see bundle after dry bundle hanging from the invisible beams of the dark ceiling and tied onto clothes lines, tangled like spider webs, just above his head. It took some effort to navigate through the thicket of dry stems. Their thick, heady smells made his head swim.
The dry warmth of the stove beckoned after the damp chill outside.
“It has been a long time,” Gleb the Herb Man said. He was still addressing the wolf, but then he turned to look at Ivan. His dark eyes held quiet curiosity.
It struck Ivan as strange. As far as he could tell, there was nothing in him that called for such curiosity—a young man with blue eyes and straw-colored hair,
wearing simple peasant garb. The villages in all the kingdoms were full of men who fit this description. But in the past year of traveling with Wolf, Ivan had gotten used to many odd things. A thin old man who talked to Wolf with familiarity and eyed Ivan as a curious beast was by no means the strangest of them.
“It was damn hard to find you, old man,” Wolf growled. “I would have given up on you if the boy here hadn’t dragged the information out of an unsuspecting villager. Who would have thought that you’d forsake your promise and settle back in the Kingdom of the Damned?”
A spark flared in the old man’s eyes. “The Kingdom of the Immortal, you mean. Or, as people here like to say—”
“…The Undead,” Wolf finished. “We know. Spare us the witty talk.”
“So.” Gleb’s eyes returned to Ivan. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. “You found yourself another hero.”
“Yes.”
“A strange choice. Not what I would have expected.”
“I think,” Wolf said, “what you expected is what everyone expects.”
“Can’t you just give up?”
“You know I can’t.”
“I did.” A strange mixture of feelings filled Gleb’s voice. Restraint. Bitterness. Pain.
Wolf nodded. “It was a hard loss for me. But I found myself another herb man. And, he brought this boy back from the dead. Now, the three of us are in this together.”
“Yes,” Gleb said. “The three of you. Yet, you came back to me. What do you want?”
Wolf shifted to turn his back closer to the fire. The flickers coming through the narrow slits in the stove door made his coat glow like amber.
